


A Glorious Day, Ruined

by LongStrider



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: 2024, Gen, Harry Potter Alternity, Paralymics, Prosthesis, Quidditch
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-09
Updated: 2018-03-09
Packaged: 2019-03-29 04:31:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,030
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13919418
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LongStrider/pseuds/LongStrider
Summary: A quarter century after the end of Alternity, Cedric visits the 2024 Paralympics for the first non-exhibition quidditch game.





	A Glorious Day, Ruined

**Author's Note:**

> This is from the future history of one my characters, Cedric, from Alternity Harry Potter. It was not officially used in that game. While I am the player of the character writing this, it is not a part of the canon of that game. Please see www.hpalternity.com & https://alt-fen.dreamwidth.org/ for more information about the game.

Cedric sat in the stands, Albion’s flag glowing on the back of his cloak. The sun had finally succeeded in pushing back Paris’s chill morning air. He doubted that the crowds cared about the temperature; they wanted the action to start. Albion and Germany were huddled near their own goals posts, having a last minute chat. Johnson, Diddleworth, and Edgecomb were all on their prosthetic/broom hybrids. The only modifications he could see with his omnioculars were the team colour paint jobs. His headache came back a touch every time he looked at Skellius’s hand. He’d spent far too many hours shouting at his honourable colleagues on committee about acceptable charms for hands. He could feel that little burn of anger every time he looked at that hand; it was so inferior to what his team could produce. Diddleworths’ decision to mount her beaterbat onto her other prosthetic was understandable, but he still didn’t like that it was legal. The prosthetic/broom combinations made sense from a safety perspective, he just didn’t like the idea of not being able to force the other side's beaters to drop their bats or giving up the ability to swap the bat to your off hand.

His foot itched again, feeling was coming back into his shoulder and he wished the the game would start so he could be swept up in the tumult and ignore it. Scanning the opposition he saw that Hartmann and Fuchs both had their bats affixed. Stallic had one of Metternich’s hands, an innately inferior product. Metternich had been infuriating on committee, he’d twisted the official rules about until no one else could produce any hands there were superior to what he could personally produce. Baz and Henri are trying to chat up the two young French women sitting on their far side. He can’t tell if they are witches or not. Not that it matters, but even now after so many years, he still finds himself scanning for wands. After shaking hands the teams finally took to the air over the five interlocking rings emblazoned on the field, no silly flying ‘drones’ here. He startled more than most at the cannon, before taking up the ‘Al-bi-on! Al-bi-on!’ chant. The jingoism of the Games always bothered him but he couldn’t escape the pride in what they had built, both at his country and at this the first quidditch game after two cycles relegated to exhibitionary status.

Edgecomb tipped his broom and hung from his harness while flipping the quaffle in for the first points. The crowd lost its mind. The eerie howls of his hometown team, the Walsingham Wolves roared out from the Albion stands. Those howls were the main fact pointing conspiracy theorists toward the ridiculous idea that a pack of hidden werewolves followed the Wolves around Europe as Quidditch hooligans. With the first score of the game the snitch clock started. Cedric didn’t like it but understood why at the time compressed international tournaments the rules were watered down. The seekers now had 60 minutes before the snitch would start glowing and 90 before it would start emitting a shrieking whistle.

Thirty-five minutes in it was 90-80 in favor of Albion when Stallic dropped the Quaffle. Cedric was almost positive one of his fingers was broken. He made a note to owl Stallic after the Games were over about the a quality replacement for day-to-day wear. He was planning a trip through Bavaria next year anyway. Metternich made his wand spark, he was such a hack. Cedric couldn’t believe he’d weaseled his way onto the 2028 exploratory committee for Muggle Quidditch. He looked forward to working with Pak and Khumalo, but Metternich’s ideas for creating the necessary circulating magic fields were about as useful as a Snorkack hunt.  
Stallic’s bad hand limited Germany’s chasers to mostly two person plays with Stallic running interference. Eighty minutes in and the midday sun had spent twenty minutes rendering the snitch glow pointless. Voigt was getting desperate as Albion had pulled well into the lead at 200 to 90. Several false dives from her and random pointing from the German chasers resulted in a team warning for seeker interference. It was just more watering down of the quidditch rules. Germany pulled back into a defensive crouch, one beater perilously close to another second keeper foul, clearly they hoped to keep the score close enough Voigt could grab the snitch and they could rescue their chances from this disastrous game.

At ninety minutes the snitch started in on its horrendous noise coincidentally (or not) Cedric’s arm started spasming. He’d stunned it twice already today. All he could do was sit, bracing it against the armrest and try to hold it down. The last, painfully young, mediwitch at St Mungo’s had read him the riot act about ‘over stunning’ and ‘permanent nerve damage’. He’d asked her ‘What nerves?’ She hadn’t liked that much. Right now it felt like he was all nerves and his foot was at it again, itching like it was still there. Baz turned to his father and began massaging his shoulder. The two French witches edged away with unpleasant looks. He could now see their white knuckled hands holding the wands that had dropped into their hands from forearm holsters when he started flailing. Henri’s face fell and he looked so angry. Cedric interrupted, “Henri no, don’t. It’s not worth it.” The Albion crowd erupted in raucous cheers. Noxon must have caught the snitch. 360 to 90. Or something close to that, he’d lost track of the action in last several minutes. It was hard to care at the moment. He resolved to talk to Pak after their next meeting. Maybe it was time to take up the Korean’s offer to build him a new arm and discard this sodding, flailing, dead weight. Pak offered options, she gave him choices, talked about what he could do in the future, unlike… St Mungo’s wouldn’t even entertain the idea. ‘Keep what you’ve got’ they kept saying. They already tsked at his leg every time he was in. Maybe it was time to finally just cut things right the bloody hell off.


End file.
